THE BLUE GIRL CROSS TIME

 

Dreams are dreams. Pieces of image with immersed feelings that don't struggle to see the light of day. They stand on their own. Dreams within sleep and outside sleep are just pieces of lives in other spaces, belonging to others who neither know how to be dreamed, nor know, nor want, nor are they part of the life of those who dream them. Dreams are pieces of art, of drowsiness from worlds apart.

Tiny, smaller than before, curled up between thin, misshapen upper limbs, nothing like how we remember her. But in the same look, the sweet blue in a thin almond face, in a frame of light and fine hair, thrown on the pillow that supports her gaze, the blue girl smiles and verbalizes something, not the past, nor the present of which she already is not part of it, but wants to patch it up, wants to hold the gaze to show something that pierces time. The dark clothes, not at all appropriate, nor in keeping with the lightness that she wore while she walked here, small and light, in girlish clothes. The blue girl was attentive to the organ external to her, in that round room, on the piece of furniture next to the window, where light curtains waved next to her. The girl heard the memory sounds of a keyboard that her uncle was trying to compose, loose chords of a free author's composition. Among the shrunken limbs, with their necks bare, there were loose grunts that entered the keyboard and, like curtains, undulated and modulated the melody played. The blue girl still had in her eyes the duly folded bags, duly rolled up, duly stored in the drawer under the refrigerator, and asked, between grunts, for my hand, for my attention to what she intended to show, and for my open ears, my senses. awake, they returned to the past, the litter on the sofa, the small coffee table, the eternal brightness of the morning and the bit of wind that waved the curtains on that busy street, between alfere malheiro and almada,the sounds that came from in front, from Eurico Cebolo, from the apprentice's professional keyboard that were composed of harpsichord pieces, and drowned out the sounds of the garbage cart, of all the cars that crowded together and honked their horns in an attack on traffic on the road.

Behind the sofa, there were traces of what had been an internal window that opened onto another room and it showed Queen Elizabeth in a commemorative painting, old, as old as time, on a canvas yellowed by the passing of the seasons. Ana Isabel, Ana, Isabel, Ana, the members potentiated damage that came from other times, from other plans and that clouded the plans of the mother who gazed raptly at her blue girl, believing her lost in the years, in saying goodbye to the years, of the time that was not contained. The blue girl remained there, in that room, her limbs withered, but she was the star that remained over the years. And between plans, she would enter my dreams and softly sing songs that she had grown accustomed to listening to, that she had become addicted to, and the walls held the melodies, held the ripples in the curtains, held the furniture, the organ that she still carried on her chest, and in her fine and light hair, there rested a butterfly indent and a flower where it rested and made its almond face on queen isabel, on the blue girl, on anna, on her apron like her mother's, on her ironing board imitating her mother's, on her mother's imitation ironing board, mother's carrot creams, the pretense of time that dared to culminate. The blue girl wandered between dreams and plans, between sounds and thistles, between camellias and lemons, between vases and sermons that were offered among humans. In other people's dreams, she knocked down with flashes, loose images and songs that the walls kept so she wouldn't leave, waiting for her mother, between the living room and the kitchen, between the stairs and the banisters, between day and night, between the migraines and the worries, there was always a steamy morning, next to the armchair and the window, from where he looked at people and the cars, and watched the television.

Dreams contained the glory and blur of being the continuity of what was unseen and which the walls stubbornly kept as the summer passed. A face on a screen, a fluttering curtain in the window, a yellow rose, a smile made of teeth set in, themselves smiling, of time that flowed between them, of liquid blue eyes that angels often illuminated from behind her. . The wings, the lilies, the pansies and the music that kept going, at family dinners, in the rush, in the rush, in the trip to the Bolhão market, in the little school near the church of Cedofeita, in getting home with the backpack and snack, and the dog that mingled in her arms, now shriveled by the space given to time, that of annihilating the story of the blue girl dancing with her ballerina steps, the girl Ana Isabel, the sweet and tiny girl who stayed in the room where the furniture was the presumption of a time that would never end. Someday, she would have to let the walls lay at her mother's feet the melody that kept her there, in her home, in her labyrinth of affections, gathering images and pieces to compose the song of choice for her lifelong love, for Dina, Dina's mother who had died a little in these walls, due to the lack of the girl and of giving occupation to her pains, of not physically seeing the girl, her liquid, smiling blue eyes left her there, in the armchair, where she saw the screen, in the dim window, of Queen Elizabeth, the small coffee table, the organ that was more than an ornament, from which the sounds escaped, of the sofa with the litter, of the vases with flowers and in the middle, the magazine rack of the father, of the brother who slipped into other songs, who ran up the stairs, in the crying that could be heard between spring nights and other more feverish ones, where no altercation broke out the music that she heard, that only she heard, that only she could hear, in those papier-mâché walls decorated with yellow and blood-colored orchids, in faint yellows, in stained glass windows that could be seen in the banisters, in the clearings, in the gaps, The blue girl fulfilled her waiting time, never alone, she ran into my lap, light as a bird, chirping and happy like a hummingbird, sweet and constant like a Mahler symphony, and if she hadn't seen it before, time showed that her upper limbs had withered due to the lack of hugs, the warmth of her mother's hugs, who was saddened and couldn't see that she hadn't left, what had left no longer existed, that it was her skinny legs, her arms that cradled her Dina's mother's neck, the blue girl's mother's. She had stayed in the concave room, adorning the dreams of others. Dreams are images that retain and capture the sounds, all the senses, the longing and the mystery of God and the sounds present in dreams save us from oblivion, along with the images of angels. The rustling of wings through the corridors can still be heard by anyone who is attentive, awake, present in this space that they call the past, because it lives in us through other planes. That's where we find them, the angels.